favors owed
by wild wolf free17
Summary: No one lives forever.  [AU before Bad Day at Black Rock]
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: favors owed

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired; AU before "Bad Day at Black Rock"

**Parings**: technically, none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1050

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: _smilla02_ for being awesomely awesome!

* * *

Sam always knew no one could live forever. He didn't have those years in adolescence where he thought himself immortal or invincible—he always knew better, the truth painted across him and Dean and Dad in blood.

He always knew he'd die one day, probably after Dad and Dean, probably scared and hurting, probably alone. He left the hunt to escape that fate—and then was dragged back, angry and vengeful, the stench of fire all that remained of his hope.

He knew he wouldn't live forever, and then he died in Dean's arms, cold and numb, fighting to stay awake. He died with the one person left in the world that he loved—and he woke alone, dark knowledge settling in his gut.

No one lives forever, but after waking from death, Sam's learned he can't die. Either something in Dean's deal went horribly wrong or terribly right, and Sam doesn't know. But he doesn't bleed. He can hurt and ache, fleeting pain soon gone without even an echo, but his blood never leaves his veins.

Maybe The Demon won, after all. He'll outlive Dean, for sure. Even if they break the deal, Dean will die. And Sam… he won't.

He wants to ask Dean if he meant this, but Sam can't force the words. Can't show what a freak he really is. He hasn't had a vision since Mom and Dad's killer died—but he hasn't bled since he woke from death, either.

And he doesn't know what that means, but he has a damned good guess, and that outcome isn't pretty.

He wants to hate Dean. What's dead should stay dead—did that slip Dean's mind? Did he forget how it feels to know someone traded themselves to Hell for all eternity for you?

But he doesn't, can't blame Dean. He remembers well those days before Nebraska, before Dad. If he'd known then what he does now…

It isn't really fair that he's the only Winchester who has yet to make a deal.

Whatever's wrong with him—or right—surely, if he's sweet enough, he can have it done to Dean, too.

He must have something a demon could want, if old Yellow-Eyes was anything to go by. And he's always been good with words.

So one night, Sam leaves Dean to his women, to having fun and celebrating life, that dark knowledge churning in his gut and whispering of everything that can't be right. He goes to the crossroad they'd passed on their way into town and waits.

No one lives forever.

"What do you want, Samuel Winchester?" the demon asks, from behind him; he turns to see it wearing a statuesque blond.

"I want Dean to be like me," he responds, straightening to his full height.

"Impure and tainted, unable to bleed and die?" it laughs. "You sure, sweetie?"

"So you _did_ do it on purpose." He glares. "Why?"

It smiles, revealing bone-white teeth. "He didn't specify _how_ he wanted you back, little brother. Just alive." It shrugs. "I owed Yellow-Eyes a thing or two. But now…" It steps forward. "Dean took care of that debt for me. Left me free as a robin red-breast. So I'll give you what you want, Sam, no payment required. And, just to have it so you owe me a favor, boy, I'll release Dean's soul and keep the two'a you young forever."

Sam feels relief sweeping him, tempered by wariness: it's too good to be true. "Demons don't do things like that."

It smiles again, finally stepping into his space. Its host wears the same perfume Jess used to—he pulls back, but it follows, gripping his arm. "I don't like having debts, Sammy. But I _love_ people owing me. It's a simple thing to understand for a smart boy like you: I do to Dean what I did to you, making him immortal, and I _don't_ come claim his soul in a year. He'll live until _you_ decide he can't anymore. Only you will be able to make him bleed—and what doesn't bleed doesn't die."

Sam stares at it, trying to see the demon in the woman's hazel eyes. "And what about me?" he asks. "How can I die?"

It laughs and says simply, "You can't."

He shakes his head. "No one lives forever."

It reaches up, host's hand cupping his cheek. "Do we have a deal?"

He thinks for one long moment: this is what he wanted, isn't it, when he came out here, when he summoned the bitch that brought him back.

"Yes," he says softly. "You do to him what you did to me and we have a deal."

It pulls his head down and caresses his lips with its host's. "You Winchesters," it whispers into his mouth. "Oh, I could make an eternity of just watching you." It pulls away, licking the woman's lips. "You taste like hope, Sam," it laughs. "Sweet little boy."

It turns, walks away. "Go back to your brother," it calls without looking back. "You have forever, now. Best to get started."

Sam hopes fervently he didn't just make the greatest mistake of his life, and then he leaves, hurries back to the car he stole, speeds to the motel room.

No one lives forever—what doesn't bleed doesn't die. What has he done? What the fuck did he just do? Dean'll kick his ass.

If it worked, it's worth it.

Sam waits in the room, pacing, worrying himself into a frenzy. Dean comes back at dawn, smelling like cheap perfume and liquor, hair mussed, lipstick on his face and neck. He looks exactly the same as when Sam left, like nothing is changed.

But everything has.

Dean takes one glance at him and straightens. "What's wrong, Sammy?" he demands.

Sam cracks, laughing and crying, and gasps between sobs, "You're free." Dean catches him when his legs collapse and he buries his face in Dean's shirt, trying to curl up in big brother's embrace again, but it doesn't work. He's too grown now.

He repeats, "You're free, Dean."

"Sammy," Dean whispers, "what'd you do? Please, tell me you didn't—" He doesn't finish and Sam says through his tears, "You're like me now."

And Sam, meeting Dean's horrified gaze, still isn't sure just what the hell that means.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: favors owed

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired; AU before "Bad Day at Black Rock"

**Parings**: technically, none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 540

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean waits for Sam to cry himself out and helps him to bed, tucks the blanket around him. Sam's exhausted and sleeps deep; Dean's still reeling, though, and knows it'll be awhile yet for him.

If he understands Sam's broken explanation correctly… no. _Can't_ be. So the only thing to do is test it, prove Sam wrong.

Dean goes into the bathroom, grabbing his knife on the way. He stares in the mirror for a long moment, gathering courage: of everything he's done in his life, he's never purposefully hurt himself. But he _needs_ to know.

The blade is cold against his fingertip; he flexes, biting the sharp metal down—and nothing. No pain, no cut, no blood. Nothing at _all_. So he moves the blade to his left forearm and saws down. But the skin never breaks, never divides beneath edge.

Dean stares at his traitorous skin, dumbfounded. _What doesn't bleed doesn't die_, Sam'd told him, tears and laughter in his voice. _We'll live forever._

It's wrong. It's so wrong. He wants to scream and rave, to demand the demon take it back. But—

And there it is. Now, Dean can make sure Sammy stays safe. He can stay with Sam. Forever.

He walks back into the bedroom, knife in hand, and stares at his little brother. There's still a destiny, something neither of them can really comprehend.

Sam can't be hurt, either. He knows that. But still—

He's spent the better part of twenty-nine years taking care of Sammy. And now… well, now, everything has changed.

He went from having a year to having forever, and now he's just lost.  
"Damnit, Sammy," he whispers, dropping onto his bed. "What've you done?" It's a new world—everything's changed. Sam made a deal, somehow bargaining for eternity.

Dean can watch out for Sammy forever now. And they can't be hurt. Won't bleed. Won't age. Won't die.

Forever. Seems like a damned long time.

He slides the knife beneath his pillow, craving contact to ground him. So he slips into bed beside Sam, listening to him breathe.

_What doesn't bleed doesn't die._ Dean closes his eyes, his mantra from almost a year ago echoing in his head: _What's dead should stay dead._

_Yeah, _he tells himself. _Maybe so. But not if it's Sammy_.

And now, it'll never be Sam. Never be Sam so cold and stiff, blue and gray, so still. Never ever again.

Sam shifts and Dean moves closer. They have forever. Invincible and immortal, eternally young—something Dean can't remember ever thinking before, even as a teen. He always knew better. He always knew he'd die, that Dad would die—that—that _Sam_ would die. But he never thought he'd be the only Winchester left, and then he _was_. He _was_.

Now, though, he'll never have to worry about that again.

Sam didn't tell him everything, Dean knows. But he has forever to get the rest.

Forever. "Aw, Sammy," he whispers. "You foolish, stupid kid." But he can't really blame Sam, not after what he himself did.

Dean stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep. Sam lies beside him, slumbering deeply—when Dean finally dreams, it's of a crimson river and Mama crying because her babies will never come home.


End file.
